The Gift-Wrapped Groom by M.J. Rodgers Page A

description. I seek to reclaim that part I have lost. The work my mind was trained to do is here. It is why I have come.”
    â€œAnd accepted even this preposterous arranged marriage to get here.”
    â€œIt did not seem so preposterous as I shoveled the dirty snow off the cold concrete walks of Moscow.”
    Noel looked closely at the intelligent, well-spoken, sophisticated man in the perfectly-fitting silver shadow tuxedo standing beside her and tried to picture him shoveling snow for a living alongside alien, onion-domed buildings. It seemed impossible. And so terribly wasteful.
    â€œYou wanted me to give my word that we would stay married long enough for you to become a citizen so you would have a chance to secure a job here as a physicist.”
    â€œYes. Also to have sufficient time to save the money I will need to be self-sufficient. The rubles I used to pay my transportation here have left me with few to spare.”
    â€œMy grandfather didn’t pay your way?”
    â€œHe offered to. But I explained to him that I could never accept his money. I would only agree to come if I paid my own way.”
    Noel smiled. “And that probably delighted him about as much as another outbreak of gout.”
    â€œI do not understand.”
    â€œNo, I suppose you don’t. What does your family think about your coming here?”
    â€œI have no family.”
    â€œThey’re dead? Even those relatives you once visited in that village when you were ten?”
    â€œYes. They have been gone a long time.”
    â€œI’m...sorry.”
    Silence filled a long moment in which the only movement was the slow, lazy snow falling like feathers, pillowing the ground, burying the memories.
    Noel knew the time had come to broach the subject that could be put off no longer. How could she tell him? What would be the right words?
    Noel would never know if she could have found them; because it was Nicholas Baranov who first cleared his throat and spoke.
    â€œMiss Winsome, I hope you will understand what I must now say. A sworn pledge is a Russian’s arteries, his blood. They run red and clean with truth or turn green and sick with the bile of sworn falsehood. I cannot give these pledges your grandfather has spoken of in this marriage ceremony.”
    Noel could barely believe her ears. Had she heard right? “Wait a minute. Are you saying you’d rather go back to—”
    â€œRussia. Yes. My mind may die as a Moscow street cleaner, but my blood will still run red and clean and alive. And I will go on. That is what it means to be Russian. To go on, alive in one’s word if nothing else.”
    She spoke her thoughts aloud, knowing she had to hear their sounds echoing through her ears before she could accept them.
    â€œYou’re not going to marry me.”
    â€œI thought it proper to tell you of this first. I do not think it distresses you. I will go now to tell your grandfather. Regrettably, I do think it will distress him.”
    Noel could barely believe the good fortune being handed to her on a silver platter by this man in a silver tuxedo. She would have to do nothing. Nicholas Baranov would tell her grandfather that he was the one pulling out. She would not lose her store or home. She’d pay her grandfather back and that would be the end of that.
    Noel waited for the relief to wash over her, for the joy to fill her heart. She did not have to leave Midwater. She did not have to give up one iota of her independence. She had won!
    But strangely, unexplainably, she felt anything but a winner.
    No relief. No joy.
    Because, as Nicholas Baranov turned to go, all she could think of were those powerful shoulders shoveling snow on a Moscow street and a brilliant mind slowly dying from lack of use. With every step he took, a burgeoning sense of panic rose inside her chest.
    â€œWait!”
    He turned. Waited. Watched her silently, with a face of darkened stone.
    Noel’s thoughts